There's No Place Like Home
by freyjaee
Summary: "Like, this whole Medieval-thing you've got going on here is totally cool and whatever, but I've been lost in these woods for like a day now and I really want to go home." Modern gal Freya finds herself in a spot of trouble and 1000 years into the past and now she's faced with a suspicious Merlin and an overbearing Prince on her journey to Camelot to find some answers. Not ArthurOC
Freya had a hangover. And it was not a pretty sight to behold. She didn't bother to attempt to tame her hair, her eyes were still slightly bloodshot, and her skin a sickly shade that turned green at the mention of any sustenance bar water. She flinched at noises deemed too loud and light too bright, and sequestered herself away from human interaction for the rest of the day.

She _supposed_ it had gotten too out of hand. But it _had_ been her eighteenth birthday last night, and as any teenager was want to do once they reached the legal age, she had hit up the local clubs - a grand total of two in her small countryside village - last night with her friends, proudly flaunting her new status as an "adult". Her parents had sighed and begged her to be careful, and her sixteen year old brother had looked on jealously as she passed them smugly on her way out.

Stumbling into the kitchen, she glanced at the clock and winced as she realized it was already past noon and she had already slept most of the day away. She spotted a note on the counter from her mother and gulped in trepidation. It read:

 _Freya,_

 _How kind of you to finally find your way back home after not answering our calls. It was a pleasure to be woken up by your loud entrance at 1am this morning._

 _There are leftovers in the fridge for lunch when you wake up - we've gone out to visit your nan and grandad today, and should be back later in the afternoon._

 _Try to shower today at least,_

 _Mum_

It could've been worse, she thought, and her mood brightened as she realized she wouldn't be in as much trouble as she'd feared. Finally resembling an actual human being, she went digging in the fridge for those leftovers her mother had mentioned.

It was brisk outside but the rays of sunlight that filtered through the clouds on that chilly March day was too tempting to resist. Grabbing a paper back, an old patched blanket, and wrapping herself in her warmest coat, Freya headed outside to the woods behind her house for a couple hours of fresh air and uninterrupted peace, a sure antidote to her current affliction.

It was too early in the year for there to be much shrubbery, making it much easier to find a cleared spot where she could sit and lean against the bottom of a tree.

North Wales, where Freya lived, was abundant in woods and countryside - as troublesome as it was to find the entertainment plentiful in cities, there was something simply magical about the Welsh countryside.

"Ow, shit," she murmured, crouching down and rubbing the spot where a rock had poked her when she'd sat down. She soon settled, despite taking several minutes to grumble about the (unsurprising) abundance of rocks and twigs in the woods. Wrapped in a blanket and focused on her words in her book did wonders to clear the lasting banging in her skull, and she found herself drifting off against the tree as the late night caught up to her.

She awoke shivering. Her fingers were stiff and dry and her neck ached from the awkward position she had fallen asleep in. It was much darker and Freya jolted, afraid her family would come home and find her missing. Gathering the blanket around her, she looked around briefly for the book she must have dropped while sleeping. Squinting against the lack of light, she searched all around her but couldn't find a trace of it. Slightly unnerved, she turned towards home and promised to come back and find it tomorrow. Freya had only walked for a few minutes coming into the woods and had been able to see her house from where she had been sitting. Ten minutes after she left however, she still couldn't spy her home among the trees. She was sure she was in the same woods - the trees looked infinitely familiar to her eyes, though, rather strangely, almost smaller and younger, as if they hadn't been here all that long.

She began to panic. Where was her house? She could see the brook she and her brother had explored when they were little, and marched towards it determinedly. She had lived on this plot of land all her life and she knew if you stood at the narrowest part of the brook, turned south, and walked forward exactly 34 paces, you would arrive at the backdoor. Positioning herself correctly, Freya closed her eyes and counted as she took the steps. Reaching 34, she opened her eyes and was met face to face with a large oak tree she had never seen before, with no sign of her home.

Releasing a wail of helplessness, she fell to her knees gasping for breath as she grasped the situation. She was lost in the woods at night - no phone, no food, she hadn't told anyone where she had gone. Overwhelmed with panic, she clung onto the one rule her mother had told her when she used to get lost in the supermarket when she was young.

 _If you can't find us,_ Louise would tell her daughter gently, _stay exactly where you are. We will always find you._

Pulling herself to her feet, Freya stumbled back to the spot she had chosen earlier that afternoon. Tears stung her eyes as she curled up against the tree and pulled the blanket closer around her. It was cold and dark, and waves of misery crashed upon the girl as for the first time in her life she truly felt scared.

It was daylight once again when Freya woke. Her face was stiff from dried tears and she felt sore from sleeping on the floor. As the sun filtered through the forest, it became even more apparent that the landscape was far changed from the one she knew at home. Feeling emboldened by the coming of day, Freya stood up and began searching for a way home. She was Welsh, for crying out loud. The countryside was in her blood - wooded areas were her forte and if she couldn't survive for a day out in the wilderness she did not deserve to call herself a Welshman.

She wandered aimlessly for hours. It was early in the year and she couldn't find any berries or other food to satiate her hunger with, but she managed to return to the creek from last night whose freezing water allowed her to drink as well as wash herself the best she could.

It was only when the sun reached its highest peak that she heard voices and the cracking of twigs on the ground. Her heart leapt and her shoulders sagged in relief - the fear that she would be left to die alone in the woods had started to nag at her around the second hour of walking. Her first instinct was to rush towards the voices but she stopped and decided to sneak towards them first and determine who they were. Creeping in the direction of the voices, she tried to silence the sound of her footsteps and cursed every time she snapped a twig. Eventually, she came across a camp where a two men were gathered around a fire with their horses. She crouched behind a bush and inspected them closely. First, her eyes landed on a large stick of meat being cooked over the fire that made her mouth salivate, but she managed to tear herself away from it. The men were young and dressed in the strangest clothes - they looked like something out of the Renaissance and were unloading what looked like dead animals that were hung over their horses. Her stomach turned but her wariness heightened when she spotted weapons strewn about the camp.

Deciding to try her luck out in the wilderness as opposed to these deranged hunters, she tried to back away slowly without being seen.

"Oh fuck," she exclaimed as she tripped over the blanket still draped across her shoulders and fell over backwards with a resounding thump that knocked the wind out of her. She blinked to regain her bearings and sat up - only to be met with a bona fide sword pointed at her face.

She nearly went crosseyed staring at the pointy stick of metal aimed at her and instead looked up at its owner. He was one of the men from the camp, looking profoundly more serious and deadly as he glared down at her.

"Who are you?" he demanded. He was blonde, blue-eyed, and owned one of the most superior attitudes Freya had ever encountered. She immediately didn't like him and changed her expression to match his own stormy one.

"Who are _you_?' She countered angrily. It was a shame her sense of pride outweighed her sense of self preservation, Freya mused, and she wished to take her words back as her attacker's eyes only narrowed further and pushed the sword closer to her face.

"It is of no concern of yours," he growled, "You are trespassing. Now I demand to know who you are and your purpose in these woods."

She sniffed indignantly, "And what right do you have to demand things of me? These woods belong to no one - I have every right to walk around these woods freely without madmen attacking me and waving their swords from the Renaissance fair in my face!"

He looked at her with confusion and his resolve wavered, "Do you know who you are speaking to?"

"Evidently not or I would not have asked earlier," she tried to maintain her brave facade.

The man lowered his sword and something akin to amusement appeared in his eyes. "Merlin," he called over his shoulder, "I think you should come meet this one. She seems to have the same level of respect as you do!"

The second man appeared, surveying her. He looked vastly different from his companion, and much kinder.

"You're scaring her, Arthur. Put your sword down." The man called Merlin walked over to help her up. 'Arthur' huffed but acquiesced.

"That is exactly what I am talking about. You don't give the orders around here."

"Yes, sire," 'Merlin' rolled his eyes.

Now back on her own two feet, Freya balked as she looked between them. Clearly they were deranged. And obsessed with the Arthurian legends. The legends had been based in Wales, so she had come across quite a few historians and adventurers looking for the final resting place of the great king. She came to the conclusion that these two were just too highly involved in the legend - harmless, maybe, but they were carrying freaking swords around so it wouldn't hurt to be wary.

"So, um," she started as the two men swiveled round to look at her, "I'm a bit lost. Would you mind telling me where I am?"

"You're in the woods just outside of Camelot, on the West side," the blonde one told her.

She chuckled weakly, "No, I mean seriously. I need to get back home. I mean, it's cool that you're into all of this legend stuff, I actually find it interesting myself, but I've been lost since last night and it would be awesome if you could help me out so could you please break character for just like, five minutes." She babbled on, feeling embarrassed.

They regarded her cautiously, almost as if they weren't sure what she had just said. They moved off together to talk.

"She obviously has some kind of mental deficiency," Arthur whispered to Merlin. "She talks so strangely."

Merlin nodded in agreement, "I've never seen her kind of dress before, either." He wondered vaguely if she were a magical being, and vowed to keep an eye on her while she was around Arthur.

"Well we can't just leave her here though," Arthur pondered, "I suppose she'll have to come with us - she'll probably find someone she knows once we get back to Camelot and then they can deal with her."

"Does this mean the hunting trip is cut short then?" Merlin asked in delight. Arthur rolled his eyes before turning back to the girl who had been watching them curiously.

She was pretty enough, he supposed. She had fine features with bright blue eyes. She needed a comb for her hair though, which was wildly curly and blonde and had leaves and twigs sticking out at all angles. Her strange clothes and air of impertinence made him mistrust her though, and he got a funny feeling that she just simply didn't belong.

"We're going to help you," Arthur said slowly, "We will escort you back into the city. Do you understand?"

Freya stared at him, "I'm not stupid, you know."

"Or we can just leave you here," Arthur offered, turning to go. He would not fight if she decided not to join them - she made him uneasy.

"No!" She hurriedly tripped towards them. She must be far from home if there were a city nearby. If they were to take her to it, there must be a telephone or a taxi service she could use to get back home. "I'm sorry - the city you said? That would be immensely helpful, thank you."

Arthur nodded, "We will be having lunch first, then we will set off soon. You are welcome to have some, my lady."

"Thank you," she said again, slightly amused at his show of chivalry. They sat around the fire as Merlin prepared the food. She smiled at him as he handed her a plate and then promptly dropped any pretense of being a polite individual and devoured the food in front of her.

Arthur and Merlin watched her with faint disgust while picking at their own meal.

"So, uh," Arthur cleared his throat, "What is your name?"

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, "I'm Freya."

Merlin, who had started to clear away the camp, jumped violently and dropped the stack of weapons he had been carrying, sending a crossbow flying across camp.

"Merlin!" Arthur thundered, but Merlin made no more to pick up the mess, and only stared at Freya with a pale, shocked face.

"What?" She asked, confused. But Merlin seemed to regain his senses and shook his head before bending down to gather everything.

"My idiot manservant over there is Merlin," Arthur hissed, "And I," here he took on a look of great importance as he formally introduced himself, "I am Prince Arthur of Camelot."

Freya sighed. It would be a long trip if it meant she had to spend it with these idiots.


End file.
